The Accidental Marriage: Chapter 27

My wife’s fork stops, the prongs still buried in the perfectly cooked rice noodles. What’s wrong? She seemed fine when I walked in with the flowers and coconuts. She flushed becomingly and watched me handle the hard-shelled fruit with a brilliant light in her gorgeous eyes. Does she have any idea how sexy she is when she watches me? Does she know how much I revel in her gaze, knowing that, in her eyes, I’m nothing like my mother?

My blood warmed, and I wanted to taste her lips more than the food. Hell, if she hadn’t made dinner herself, I might’ve said fuck it and ravished her on the spot.

But I didn’t want to appear as though I didn’t appreciate her effort, especially since she’s never cooked for us before. It’s probably a sign she’s beginning to think of this house as her home, too, after my effort to show her she can go anywhere and do whatever she wants. I don’t ever want her to feel like she’s confined to just the bedroom, living room and dining room.

As the silence stretches, I drop my gaze back to her plate. “Do you want me to taste it for you?” I ask gently. I should’ve thought about it, but since she prepped the meal, I assumed she wouldn’t need anybody to check her food first.

She blinks, then laughs softly. “Ah…no. I trust myself not to put in anything dangerous. I was just thinking…” She hesitates for a moment. “This coconut you brought is delicious.”

Her eyes meet mine, and she’s smiling. But the light from before is gone, and my lawyer’s instinct says she’s only being partially truthful. Of course, whatever she’s hiding is the more important part of the situation. Incisive, probing questions pour into my head, but…

Lareina isn’t a hostile witness on the stand. She’s my wife. If she’s upset enough to hide something from me, I need to figure out a way to coax it out of her and see if I can fix it.

So I smile back. “They’re better in Thailand.”

She cocks her head, tapping the end of the straw. “How?”

“Just fresher there, probably. Or maybe it’s the whole scene, the beach, the sun, the wind—lots of palm trees. There’s something magical about the place. Akiko took me there when I was a kid, and we went a few more times. I also went when I was an adult.”

“With Akiko?”

“No. Just by myself to relax. Plus a couple of times with my brothers.”

“You didn’t take your girlfriends?” Lareina sounds skeptical. Maybe even jealous?

When my exes started to get proprietorial, I ended the relationship. But with my wife, a sense of gratification swells. I like seeing proof that she cares—that she’s possessive of me and doesn’t mind showing a little claw to mark her territory.

“Why would I? I said to ‘relax.’” My exes were never relaxing. I frown a little as a realization strikes me. They were like a chore, a checklist of something to be done to prove I was okay to The Fogeys. But if I’d been with Lareina…

I would’ve definitely taken her with me. Would’ve loved to see her frolic on the gorgeous beach, as white sunlight broke over her water-beaded skin.

“We should go,” I say suddenly.

“When?”

I flip through my calendar and workload for the next few months. “It’ll take a few weeks to wrap up all the stuff on my plate. Since we’re going to need at least ten days, maybe after mid- to late September?”

She nods slowly, which isn’t the reaction I anticipated. What’s that about?

She opens her mouth, then shakes her head slightly and gestures at the plate.

“How about the pad Thai? Better in Thailand, too?” Her tone is light, but the skin around her mouth tightens.

“It’s great, and I can’t say it’s better in Thailand.”

“How come?”

I reach out and shift the flower behind her ear—although it doesn’t need to be adjusted—and stroke the soft curve of her earlobe. I just want an excuse to touch her. “Because I’ve never had any made by you. It’s the first time you’ve cooked here in the house.”

“I’ve never cooked anywhere before.”

The implication sends sweet warmth through me. I’m glad I didn’t give in to my baser urges earlier. “Then all the better. Nobody in Thailand cooked for the first time for me.”

The bright sparkles reappear in her eyes, and I can’t look away. Her shoulders finally relax as she takes a bite of her noodles, then smiles like the happiest woman in the world.

I freeze, unable to move as the air catches in my throat. I’ve never seen this expression on her before. She looks so content—her heart at home and at ease. The sweet sensation from earlier thickens, sending shivers along my skin. I wish that we could be like this forever.

The conversation for the rest of the dinner is pleasantly mundane. At one point I ask about what she did during the day, and she excitedly tells me about a Thai cooking channel she found on YouTube. “I always thought I had to go to Thailand to learn, but I can do it here too! The lady has so many recipes. Since you liked the pad Thai, I’ll try some others as well.”

Joy puts a rosy glow to her cheeks, and her eyes shine. Her enthusiasm is contagious. “Then I’ll be your guinea pig. Somebody’s gotta eat the food you make.”

She nods with a laugh. “But you have to be honest about it. You can’t just think, Oh it’s the first time she made this for me, so I have to flatter her.”

“I swear, I’ll be honest.” I pause for a moment. “I’ll always be honest with you.”

She smiles. “I know. I think I knew the moment I ran into you in Vegas.”

“Hmm. But back then you didn’t know anything about me.”

“I knew you were nice enough to help a strange woman who practically broke into your room. You even tried to give me money. And even though we got married accidentally and you have no recollection of it, you’ve decided to help me out anyway.”

“I had my reasons,” I mutter, somewhat reluctantly. But I don’t want to take credit for something that isn’t entirely true.

“That promotion? I’m sure you earned it. Jeremiah and Prescott don’t seem like the types to give it to you otherwise.” Suddenly Lareina frowns, eyeing our empty plates. “I didn’t make anything for dessert.”

“Why bother exerting yourself?” I get up, pulling her out of her seat.

“Do we have ice cream in the freezer?” she asks, somewhat hopefully.

“No.”

Every cell in my body seems to sigh at the sensation of her bare skin against my palms. She’s a lovely little witch—making me feel like I’m home and excited beyond measure at the same time.

I gently coil my fingers in her hair, giving her time to pull back if she wants. Instead she looks up at me, her eyes glittering with expectation. It’s all the encouragement I need. I bend down to capture her mouth.

Sweet and salty with a hint of tartness. And woman, pure and beautiful. The taste of her hits me like the most addictive of drugs, and overheated blood flows into my cock, leaving me dazed.

I hold the kiss forever, desperate to get more of her. I can never seem to get enough to satisfy this hunger for my wife. She pushes into my mouth with her tongue, boldly erotic. My heart races faster, and I trace the sweet curve along her waist, slipping my hand underneath her shirt.

The feel of her taut, warm skin sends my senses spinning, as though my coconut held wine, not water. I trace the irresistible lines of her body I adore so much. The pad of my thumb strokes along the little bumps along her arched spine, slowly gliding up, up, up—

Suddenly, she freezes and pulls back. “I don’t think… Um…” She looks away.

Her back. She’s worried I might touch the scar, discover the shape and roughness of it underneath the shirt.

The withdrawal hits me like a bucket of ice water. The blood in my body instantly chills. When she told me she didn’t want me to see it before, I thought maybe she was just shy about it, unsure about my reaction. But we’ve been together long enough that she should have some trust in me, shouldn’t she? I even promised I would always be honest with her.

I pull back as well. “Yeah, okay. I have some work to do anyway. Need to review a contract.” I manage to say it calmly, although my throat is tight.

“Right! You want some more?”

“No, I’m good. Are you…?”

“I’m fine. Yup, fine. Why don’t you go on up, and, uh, let me know if…”

She’s pushing me away. Part of me wants to stay and argue, but I also understand that she won’t tell me anything until she’s ready. Even though she opened up about her past in front of me and my family before, she hasn’t shared everything. Given her forceful personality, nothing will move her until she decides it’s time.

The study feels lonely and oddly cold. Weird. I’ve never felt that way about the place before. It’s one of my favorite rooms, designed for maximum comfort and productivity. Everything I need is within easy reach on the desk, and the bookcases have all the reference materials I might need. There’s a comfy reading couch if I want to stretch out rather than sit at my desk.

But my focus, usually a strong point, is gone. The words on the paper don’t make any sense. Twenty minutes in, I realize I’ve been on the same page since I entered the study. Sighing, I rub a hand over my forehead. What am I doing here? I should go talk to my wife about—

Lareina peeks through the open door. “Hey.”

She’s changed out of her shirt and shorts, replacing them with a blue dress that hugs her perfectly. She probably doesn’t want me touching her bare back again. The realization is bitter. “Hey.”

She blinks at my brusque tone, then bites her lip. “Mind if I sit here for a while?”

An overture. She doesn’t want our marriage to be uncomfortable and weird. I draw in air. My uneasiness from earlier abates a bit. She’s right about this point. Even if we have our differences, they shouldn’t carry over.

When I don’t answer immediately, she lifts a charcoal stick and a sketchbook in her arms. “I want to do some drawings, but need a little inspiration.”

“Am I your inspiration?”

“Who else? Especially when I want to capture a man at work.”

Despite myself, I smile a little. My wife has the most extraordinary ability to soothe any negative emotion. “All right.”

“Thank you, Sir Muse.” She grins and settles on the couch.

Now the room is filled with the sound of her soft breathing and the whisper of charcoal on paper. Suddenly it doesn’t feel so cold and empty anymore.

Subtle electric currents run in the air, making my skin prickle. I try to focus on the contract, but I can’t stop glancing at her from time to time. The blue is a good color for her, deepening her eyes until they stand out more vividly. She looks at her phone occasionally, but then quickly returns to her drawing. Her eyebrows pinch together, and she taps her chin with the end of the charcoal from time to time as she angles her head in thought.

Although she’s changed clothes, she left the purple orchid in her hair. Perhaps she needs more time before she can really trust me. If the scar is a long-held trauma, we might need more than just a few weeks together.

Patience, I tell myself.

“If someone were to gift you a portrait, would you prefer that it be big or small?” she asks suddenly.

I straighten. Is she drawing me? “Small enough to carry in my wallet,” I say without hesitation. I’d love to look at the little picture and see what she sees when she looks at me. It’d be great if I needed cheering up. Or just because I was thinking of her.

Actually, a wallet wouldn’t be a good idea, since the sketch could be damaged. I’ll pull out the antique pocket watch Grandfather left me and put the sketch inside the lid. The watch is fancy enough to go with any of my suits. When I’m in something more casual…

Fuck it. I’ve seen people wear Rolexes with Walmart T-shirts.

“That’s so small. It wouldn’t take much time at all,” Lareina says.

“Another advantage,” I say, hiding my anticipation. She purses her lips seriously, doing a great job of acting nonchalant. She’s so cute when she thinks she’s being smooth. “I mean, you wouldn’t want to keep the person waiting, right?”

“No. Okay, you’re right. This is long overdue.”

Long overdue? We haven’t known each other for that long, and it’s only been a week since I converted one of the rooms into a studio for her.

Her focus is wholly on the paper in front of her. I put down my pen, link my fingers and watch her over my hands. She’s at her most beautiful when she’s lost in something she enjoys. She glows with satisfaction and happiness from within, and that makes me want to put an impenetrable wall around her so nothing can shatter her joyful cocoon.

Of course, there’s also an urge to kiss her and distract her from the task at hand, like a jealous husband competing for his wife’s attention. I’m also starved for her. Every so often during the day at work, she pops into my head. And every single time, she’s either laughing and wrapping her arms around me from behind, or pulling me toward her beautiful body clad in nothing but lacy lingerie and fishnet stockings, her lips shockingly plump and red. Today was particularly bad, especially after her texts. In my mind she was sprawled on my desk at Huxley & Webber, her darkly glittering eyes daring me as she spread her legs.

Although this isn’t the office, it’d be hot as hell to put her on the desk and seduce her. Spread her wide and devour her. Then plunder her sweet pussy until she begs for mercy. But the desk would be wet with her juices and—

Her sudden exhale jerks me out of my thoughts. “Done!”

I jump from my seat. “Lemme see.” But I’m only partly interested in the portrait. A larger part is ready to carry her to the desk and make my fantasy come true.

“What do you think? Pretty good, right?” she says, showing me the sketch.

Who is this? The question pops into my mind, but I silence it before I blurt it out and hurt Lareina’s feelings. The man on the paper looks nothing like me. If I didn’t know any better, it looks like—

“It wasn’t easy to do without the model in front of me, but the picture helped.”

What? “Your model was sitting right here the whole time.” I gesture at the desk.

“No, I just wanted to capture your intensity.”

What the fuck? I glare at the man in the miniature portrait. My brain is finally processing the features, from the smug look in his eyes and the annoying smirk on his lips—both of which I loathe and want to erase. “Ethan Beckman?”

She doesn’t seem to notice my tone. “Pretty good, huh?”

“You drew that son of a bitch rather than me? For your first portrait?”

“Oh, it’s not my first. I did one a few years ago for an online art class.”

I glare at the picture. I hate it that he got to know her before I did. I despise that he got to be close enough to her that she drew his portrait all those years ago. The unfamiliar rage burning in my heart is startling in its intensity and animosity. I want to punch Beckman’s face until it resembles something very different from the picture my wife just drew.

She continues, “He asked me if he could keep it, and I said yes, but apparently he never got it. When we met again, he asked me about it, but I don’t have it anymore. So this is a make-up portrait.” Her words are like gasoline. “He was really nice to me back then.”

Their shared past is infuriating—especially since she and I don’t have anything between us except an apparently ridiculous Vegas wedding that I don’t remember. She claimed she hired him because he came recommended, but is that really all there is to it?

The fury burns until my vision turns red. “Did he see your back?”

She gives me a look. “What does that have to do with my sketch?”

Oh, wife, “no” would’ve been more than sufficient. Somehow her question seems like an admission that Beckman has seen it—or perhaps she’s considered showing it to him.

I loop my fingers around her long hair as I lean over and take her mouth. Her soft gasp is crushed between our lips.

The sketchbook and phone fall to the thick rug under her feet. I put my arms around her and pick her up. She loops hers around my neck, her mouth still on mine as though she can’t get enough.

Her hunger for me settles the jagged edges of my temper, even though I know it’s just my body she wants. She loves the pleasure I can give her with my cock, welcoming me into her dripping depth every night.

I prop her on the edge of the desk, just the way I fantasized. Her swollen, rosy lips look like a juicy cherry on her pink face. The golden hair cascades over her shoulders, and the orchid petals—not part of my original fantasy, but I’ll work with it—quiver over her ear, making her look like a wild goddess.

With easy snaps, I break the thin straps on the bodice, letting the dress slide down her torso, pooling at her waist. She pants, her gorgeous, bare tits rising and falling with each breath. The pointed nipples make my mouth water, my blood hot.

Her lips curve into a tempting smile of a siren. I claim her mouth, cupping her breasts in my palms. Her skin is cool against mine, but quickly heats as I knead the soft mounds. Teasing flicks of my thumbs across her nipples and her head falls back, exposing the sweet expanse of her throat.

I close my mouth over her pulse point, gratified at the rapid beating of her heart. I want to fuck her until she’s too sated to do anything except cling to me. I want to keep her hidden from the world so nobody—especially not that asshole Beckman—can make any demands on her attention and care. The intense urges are so foreign and dark, they should be scary. Instead, they seem irresistible. What does that say about me? Am I as fucked up as my mother?

The thought pierces me like an icy shiv. I lift my head, my hands slightly shaking over her breasts. My eyes meet hers—and there’s desire and something tender in her gaze. The sudden chill dissipates, replaced by a warm prickling that sends goosebumps over me.

She cradles my cheek and runs her thumb under my left eye. Only then do I realize that the skin there has been twitching.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it’s okay. We’ll be okay.”

Her soft words ripple over me like an absolution, cleansing and healing. I turn my head to kiss the center of her palm. “It’s like I’m walking a tightrope. You keep me off balance, but somehow never let me fall.”

“Just like you never let me fall.” She smiles. “You caught me first, remember?”

“I do.” I’ll never forget the moment when she jumped onto my hotel balcony.

“Maybe that’s when—”

“When what?”

She smiles again. “Nothing.”

I bite back my frustration. She was about to say something important. I can feel it in my gut.

Her lashes flutter as she lowers her eyes for a moment, then lifts them with a small, sexy smile. “I don’t think I told you, but I’m not wearing anything underneath. I had to take it off after dinner because it got so wet.”

If she means to distract me from wondering about what she didn’t say, she’s done a good job. A weirdly bitter arousal flows through me. She’s open to talking about her underwear, but not anything else that might bridge the gap between us, not to the point she’s willing to show me all of herself, without any barriers.

But I’m also a man starved for my wife. I drop my pants and boxers and drive into her hot pussy. She’s as wet as she claimed, and oh so tight. She gasps at the force of my thrusts. Her breasts bob. She moans when her nipples rub against my chest with each push and pull into her searing depths.

I fuck her with all the unspoken, dark desire in my heart, with a bittersweet need that makes it impossible for me to cling to any pride or dignity, desperate for any scrap of openness she’s willing to throw me.

And as she climaxes over and over again with my name on her beautiful lips, I grit my teeth with an uncontrollable possessiveness that turns my vision hazy.

“Ares, Ares…” she pants as she convulses around me. “I— You drive me insane. I can’t get enough.”

The breathlessly spoken confession pushes me over the edge, my control slipping from my shaky grasp. I manage to pull out at the last second and then spurt all over her belly. But even as I shake and fight to drag in air into my heaving lungs, there’s an emptiness that continues to gnaw at my heart.